


Diplomatic Relations

by Edoraslass, just_ann_now



Series: Two Heirs [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dorkiness, Drabble, Falling In Love, Ficlet, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M, Relationship Advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:10:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How it all began - the life-long love affair of the Captain and the Marshal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> Drabbles and Ficlets by Edoraslass and Just_ann_now.

**Hospitality, by Edoraslass**

In his eighteen years, Théodred has never seen anything like Mundberg, for of course there is no other city like it. He is astounded at its beauty, its size, the sheer physical effort it must have cost to build such a work of architecture.

He is not certain that he likes it. He and his father the King have only just entered the city and already Théodred longs for wide open spaces, the wind in his hair as he tears across the plains a-horseback. He cannot imagine living so closely packed -- these Gondorians seem to be almost piled atop one another.  He wonders if the horses of Mundberg miss the grasslands.

After bathing, he dons full formal regalia, sighing, for Théodred does not enjoy wearing such elaborate gear. But it is necessary; he can hardly be presented to the Steward of Gondor wearing armour or travel-stained clothing.

Théoden knows his son, and sees the resignation on Théodred’s face. “I know you do not like such affairs,” he says quietly, straightening Théodred’s collar as they wait to be announced, “I myself am none too fond of being groomed within an inch of my life. But it is inevitable for a king, Théodred. You must learn to look as if you do not mind.”

His father’s smile is catching; Théodred grins as the herald calls their names and they enter the audience chamber.

The Steward of Gondor, the Lord Denethor, son of Ecthelion, awaits them.

  
On his left is a solemn slender boy of thirteen years or so, who must be the Lord Faramir.  
But Théodred barely marks either the Lord Denethor or Faramir, for his attention is immediately drawn to the broad-shouldered, smiling young man at the Steward’s right hand. He hears his father laugh almost inaudibly, and finds that he is perilously close to staring, and so averts his gaze. He did not expect the Steward’s Heir to be so fair of face.

When they are formally introduced, their eyes meet, and what Théodred sees on the Lord Boromir’s face makes his breath catch in his throat.

“Welcome to Minas Tirith,” Lord Boromir greets, his low voice prickling Theodred‘s spine. “It will be my pleasure to introduce you to our fair City, Lord Théodred of Rohan.”

He accepts Lord Boromir’s outstretched arm, steeling himself to be impassive. Théodred clasps the other man’s forearm in the show of brotherhood, feeling the warmth of Lord Boromir’s fingers even through his heavy tunic. To his surprise and utter delight, a brief yet unmistakable spark leaps in the grey eyes of Denethor’s heir.

“I am honoured,” Théodred replies, managing to keep his voice even, “and await such introduction at your convenience.”

The Lord Boromir‘s smile is tinged with promise, and Théodred’s heart races, realizing that his stay in Mundberg will be far more pleasing than he dared dreamed.

 

**********

Boromir is not looking forward to meeting Théoden King and his son. It is not that he does not wish to make the aquaintance of their Rohirrim allies; it is that he would prefer a less formal environment. During such audiences, he often feels slightly out of place, for he is far more comfortable in the field, with his men and companions of war. He does not like the artificiality of the courtiers and the necessary audiences.

He catches himself shifting from one foot to the other, and forces himself to stop. Faramir looks perfectly at ease, though Boromir knows that his little brother is more nervous than he has any need to be. After all, Faramir is not the one expected to show Rohan’s heir all the hospitality that Minas Tirith has to offer. Boromir wishes fervently that this Lord Théodred not be some spoiled, haughty prince. He does not know how he will be accomodating and cordial if that is the case.

The herald announces their guests, and Boromir plasters a welcoming smile on his face.

Boromir does not know what he is expecting, but it is not the comely, golden young man who enters the audience chamber with Théoden King. His expression becomes wholly genuine, and he hopes that he is not mistaken in thinking that the Lord Théodred has looked his way with more than passing interest.

They are formally introduced, and Boromir’s hopes are confirmed when their eyes meet, for in the Lord Théodred’s gaze, he sees a hint of restrained fire, and his breath threatens to stop completely.

“Welcome to Minas Tirith,” Boromir says, impulsively extending his arm in greeting. “It will be my pleasure to introduce you to our fair City, Lord Théodred of Rohan.”

Lord Théodred accepts Boromir’s arm, clasping it tightly, and Boromir loses all train of thought at the other’s touch, even buffered by his sleeve as it is.

“I am honoured,” Lord Théodred replies, his rolling, fluid accent sending a delightful heat through Boromir‘s limbs, “and await such introduction at your convenience.”

Théodred’s grip tightens almost reflexively at Boromir’s answering smile, and Boromir finds that he is eager to begin showing this young man all the hospitality he has to offer.


	2. Caution

**Caution** , by Edoraslass

 

“You seem to be enjoying our stay in Mundberg.”

Théodred made a non-commental noise as his father joined him on the balcony, where he was overlooking the Citadel’s courtyard.

“I was afraid you would not like it here,” Théoden went on, “It is quite a change from what you are used to.”

“It is closer than Edoras, to be sure,” Théodred said, wondering if he could see Boromir’s room from where he now stood. “But it is not disagreeable.”

A long silence.

“The Steward’s son seems a pleasant young man,” Théoden said at length, tone rather too casual.

“Yes,” Théodred agreed, quashing the smile that inevitably arose to his face when he thought of that young man. “Boromir is quite pleasant. He is a credit to his father the Steward.”

Almost immediately he realized his blunder.

“ _Boromir_ , is it?” Théoden mused. “I did not realize we had been here long enough for you to be on such friendly terms.”

There was something odd in his father’s statement, and Théodred gave him a questioning look. “Think you that it is unseemly?”

Théoden smiled. “ _I_ do not,” he said with a hint of laughter, “well do I know what draws your eye, my son, and the Steward’s eldest is quite to your tastes, is he not?”

Théodred knew there was no point in denying it, yet could not keep the faintest blush from tinging his cheeks. “Yes,” he nodded, glancing away from his father’s steady gaze. “He is indeed.”

He felt his father’s reassuring hand on his shoulder, and something in his chest loosened, something which he had not even known was tight. “Théodred,” the King said softly, “You know that no-one in Rohan would think it untoward - nay, none in Rohan would give it a moment’s thought. But …” he hesitated, and Théodred looked to his father, startled, for Théoden King was very rarely hesitant in any situation. “…I do not know how these Gondorians feel about such things. And I certainly am not privy to the Lord Denethor’s thoughts on the matter.”

Théodred frowned. “I am not sure what you are trying to say, Father. Do you wish me to keep other company, while we are here? Would _that_ not be unseemly?”

Théoden’s hand tightened on his son’s shoulder. “That is not what I am saying,” he sighed, “all I ask is that you be thoughtful in your actions. I am only asking that you make certain the Lord Boromir is of like mind, before you make any sort of -- overtures. You are my son, and I would not deny you a moment‘s happiness -- but this is a visit of state, Théodred. As we do not know what Gondorian opinions are concerning such things, it could be taken as a grave insult, if the Lord Boromir is not similiarly inclined. Or if he is --” and Théoden’s tone was now cautioning, “--but does not wish his father to know, Lord Boromir is powerful enough, even at such a young age, to make an incident of it, should he feel it is necessary in order to keep his inclinations hidden.”

Théodred wanted to take offense, and reply that he knew, in his deepest heart, that Boromir was of like mind; that he knew Boromir was not the kind of man to raise such a hue and cry -- but he knew that sort of argument would win no approval from his father.

And, if he were frank with himself, he could not be _absolutely_ certain that what he thought he saw in Boromir’s face was honest, for Boromir had yet to make any overt gestures or comments to confirm Théodred‘s hopeful suspicions. All Théodred knew was that simply being near Boromir roused fierce emotion and longing within him, as well as a slight giddiness in the pit of his stomach. He did not know the inviting gleam in Boromir’s eyes was true.

But oh, how he _wanted_ it to be true.

His shoulders sagged slightly. “You are right,” Théodred admitted, casting his eyes down to the empty courtyard. “I will be careful, Father. Gondor is too strong an ally to offend.” He was unable to keep a shadow of resignation from his voice.

“That is all I ask,” Théoden said quietly, so sympathetic that Théodred had to look at him again. “I do not wish to leave behind ill feelings,” and now Theoden’s eyes were full of fatherly anxiety, as well as understanding, “as I do not wish to take home my son‘s broken heart.”

Théodred managed a crooked smile, nodding his thanks of his father’s concern. “I will be careful,” he repeated.

They spoke no more on the matter.


	3. The Stately Dances of Gondor

**The Stately Dances of Gondor** , by just_ann_now

I don’t just dislike these formal occasions, I loathe them. 

Receptions are not so bad. Yes, there is always a lot of standing around, but often there are interesting people to talk to: an admiral, just returned from skirmishing with the Corsairs; an artist from Lebennin, famed for her amazingly lifelike paintings of fish and waterfowl; elder statesmen who remember the days of my grandfather, and are more than happy to tell their tales. Though my special-occasion boots might pinch a bit, and I must be careful of scattering crumbs all over my dress tunic, receptions can be quite enjoyable. 

Balls, though – those are something else entirely. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times the dancing-master goes over the steps with me, I just can’t seem to avoid tripping over my feet. Not that here is ever anyone for me to dance with, anyway - even the ones who are my age gaze past me as if I were eight instead of thirteen. Everyone wants to dance with Boromir: elderly matriarchs; middle-aged matrons, young wives and mothers, and of course all the marriageable maids of the city. 

No one _ever_ wants to dance with me, so instead of standing around the Great Hall like a dolt, I’ll just stay outside here until it’s all over.

~*~

“Oh, excuse me! I didn’t mean to step on – oh, you are Faramir, are you not? We met, briefly, the other day. I am …”

“Prince Théodred of Rohan, of course.” How could I not know? I’m surprised he remembered. Why would anyone notice me, if Boromir is nearby? I could just as easily be one of those lizards that changes color on the wall, for all the notice I ever get. “But why are you out here? I would have thought you’d be dancing every dance, you and Boromir, with all those ladies…”

“I just stepped out for some air -it’s a bit close in there. And the music is not quite what I’m used to. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to criticize; you must think me terribly rude , especially since the ball is being held in honor of our visit.” It was the last thing on earth I would have thought. “The fact of the matter is,” Théodred took a deep breath, “I, I can’t dance like that. My father asked to have your dancing-master sent, and he tried, but the way he explained it is just not anything like what they are doing.” He gestured toward the ballroom. “It’s all so precise – as if everyone has been dancing that same way for a thousand years, and they’re all born knowing exactly how to do it. What if I lose my place, or tread on someone’s foot? I enjoy dancing at home, but our dances are very simple, not anything at all like these.”

He seemed so woeful, not at all what I would have expected of a warrior-Prince. “We do have one dance - it’s supposed to be country dance from Lebennin - that’s not as formal as the rest. It’s really quite fun – Boromir used to call it the hufflepuff, though that’s not its real name. 

“It’s done in a circle. You put your right foot so, like this, and bow; and then step back out. Then turn just a bit, put your left foot out, bow, step, and, back. Then you and your partner turn around completely in opposite directions, waving your hands in the air, so that at the end you are facing someone else; then you start again. That's it. It isn't really all that complicated, it just looks that way with all the bowing and swirling." I felt a bit silly, demonstrating, but Prince Théodred was watching carefully, chewing a bit on his lower lip. That made me feel much better. 

“Let me try. Do you mind? I should really dance at least once, and that one looks simple enough.”

“I don’t mind at all. The steps are almost the same for both women and men; I’ll pretend to be the girl. You bow, and I curtsey, then it always starts with the right foot….good! That’s it! Excellent!”

~*~

Where is Théodred? I’ve been waiting for hours, it seems; even his father, ever smiling, seems to be scanning the room for him. He couldn’t have gotten lost – I know the Steward’s House is big, and confusing, but all he’d have to do is follow the music. Could he be ill? Perhaps I should go check his chamber? No, that’s not a good idea, there’s no telling what kind of fool I’d make of myself if I ever had the good luck to be alone with him.

It’s so stuffy in here – all this damnable dancing. If I have to dance one more time, I’m going to start stepping on feet on purpose. Then they’ll leave me be. And where is Faramir? He should be here. There’s got to be _someone_ he can dance with. I’ll wager he’s hiding outside, like he always does. One of these days Father will catch on, and he’ll never hear the end of it. I’d better go find him, I suppose. I hope I don’t miss Théodred while I’m outside hunting Faramir down.

~*~

A frisson of excitement rippled through the Great Hall as the musicians struck up the familiar chords of the old favorite country-song from Lebennin.

Faramir and Théodred strolled in from the balcony to take their places in the circle of dancers, moving as gracefully as if they’d been born dancing. With a hint of envy, Boromir wondered what they had been laughing and chatting about so merrily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [Aliana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aliana/pseuds/Aliana)


	4. Song of Songs

**Song of Songs** , by just_ann_now

 

I cannot sleep for thinking about his mouth. 

His smile; the way he bites his lower lip sometimes when he is thinking. I dream of kissing that mouth, my tongue darting between those perfect lips as he groans beneath me. I imagine him tasting like honeyed mead, like sunlight, like autumn.

~*~

Today we sparred in the late afternoon heat, the courtyard baking in the slanted light. When we were finished he startled us by pulling off his tunic and dunking his upper body, head and all, into the horse-trough. The sight was nothing new to his own men, but the rest of us stood, transfixed. Water dripped down from his hair, and he shook his head like a spaniel, laughing. One droplet lingered, sliding over his collarbone, down the golden muscles of his chest. I could not speak but for staring, breathless, and I thought, _I want to be that drop of water._

I suddenly came back to myself, thinking what a fool I must have appeared. But then as he turned to reach for his tunic, I noticed how his damp breeches clung to his hips, and saw there in the small of his back a tattoo, a galloping horse, mane and tail flowing; and I thought, _I want to be the ink of that tattoo, lying just under his skin, gleaming with his sweat._

~*~

I cannot sleep or eat. My hands ache to touch him. I touch myself instead, biting my own lip to keep from crying out his name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for Marastar.


	5. Enthralled

**Enthralled** , by Edoraslass

 

I watch his hands as he lifts a sword. They are broad, powerful hands; soldier’s hands, with a soldier’s strength and control. He runs a fingertip along the blade, testing its sharpness. It is a delicate, deliberate motion, and I repress a shiver, wondering what it would be like to feel that light touch teasing my spine, tracing the line of my hips.

He tests the balance, hefting the weight easily, grinning in sheer delight at holding a blade. His hand is almost too big for the hilt, and his fingers shift in a manner that is by now instinctive in order to find the most comfortable hold. I do not think about his firm grip, how steady his wrist is, how the muscles of his forearm tense as he takes a swing,how his fingers slide easily over the hard steel of the hilt; not now.

He returns the sword to the smith with a smile and a compliment; the smith looks proud that Gondor’s heir has approved the weapon. Then he clasps the smith’s arm in a show of friendship, and I remember the heat of his hand through my sleeve when he touched me the same way, only a few short days ago. I wonder if his hand would burn, were it his bare skin against mine. I would welcome it, if he would but touch me as I ache for him to do.

Only when I retire for the night do I allow my thoughts to dwell on what it would be like to have him take me in hand without hesitation,to have his warm fingers wrapped around me. I remember the focused movement of his hands as he examined the sword, almost a caress;imagine his concentration fixed on my _wǽpon_ instead of cold, unresponsive metal.

I do not know what his hand feels like, but I know that my own can not feel the same.


	6. Fealty

**Fealty** , by just_ann_now

 

In the days that followed, both King Théoden and Lord Denethor were gratified to see the friendship growing between their sons, as it bode well for future relations between the two lands. Though the young men spent many hours observing the trade negotiations, learning the subtle dance of diplomacy and compromise, they also found time for sparring and swordplay and even a visit to The House of Silk, home to some of the city’s most exquisite and unusual courtesans. If Prince Théodred spent somewhat less time with Alphennas than Boromir had expected, he found himself bored with Ubennas even more quickly than usual. _You seem distracted this evening, my lord_ , she pouted, but the pearl and coral bracelet he slipped over her wrist, after trailing slow kisses down her arm, seemed to restore her good spirits.

A three-day excursion to Pelargir was not difficult to arrange. The treaty discussions were continuing as expected; there were no reports of bandits or orcs that might pose a real danger; reasonable outlets should be found for youthful energy. With a small party of guardsmen and rangers, including two from the prince’s own escort, they were soon on their way.

During the long hours in the saddle, Boromir and Théodred discussed everything under the sun, and found they were of like minds on many things: choosing the proper heft and balance of a sword; the finer points of judging horseflesh; how to discipline troops without breaking their spirits. The pain of growing up motherless; the sometimes - fearful burden of responsibility for a realm. Yet, for all the ease of their companionship, as the shadows grew long there seemed to be a strange sort of tension between them, a hushed expectancy, like a summer evening before a storm: as if fateful words were waiting to be spoken.

That evening around the fire they feasted on freshly-caught trout grilled on sticks, and potatoes roasted in the ashes. One of the guardsman had set a skin of ale to cool in the stream, and Boromir passed around a flask of excellent Dol Amroth brandy; so there were songs both bawdy and sad, and stories of fighting and wenching and even one extraordinary tale about a strange creature who herded trees like a shepherd, once seen striding across the plains of the Ringló Vale. 

After a time Boromir and Théodred bid their companions goodnight and headed into the tent they shared, quickly stripping down to their smallclothes. Neither wanted the other to catch him staring; but now in the quiet it seemed as though the brandy had tightened, rather than loosened, their tongues. Why should the talk of wenching have unsettled them so?

“The other night…did you enjoy yourself with Alphennas?” Boromir finally asked.

“The whore?” Boromir noticed the slight flush rising on Théodred’s cheek. “She was skilled enough, I suppose, just not entirely to my taste.”

_That’s an opening, if I ever heard one_ , he thought. He stepped just a bit closer, close enough to feel the heat rising from his companion’s skin, golden in the candlelight. “And what _is_ your taste?” he whispered. 

Théodred stood as though shocked, gazing into Boromir’s eyes for the barest fraction of a moment; then at the same instant they both reached for the other. Théodred’s callused fingers entwining in Boromir’s dark hair; Boromir’s lips caressing Théodred’s throat, thrilling to that first low moan.

Boromir’s kisses tasted of brandy; Théodred’s skin tasted of sunlight. With tongues and lips and all the energy of their young bodies they explored: _There. Good. Harder. Yes_. Spent, for the moment, they lay facing each other, gently tracing scars and muscles and tender, secret places.

“Why are you smiling?” Théodred was savoring the feel of a hipbone that fit perfectly into his hand. 

Boromir chuckled. “I’m just glad that I didn’t have to explain any of it. You seemed to have a good grasp -” Théodred snorted - “- of exactly what needed to be done.”

“I should have, I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen.” Boromir caught his breath in surprise.

“We have a sort of an initiation. Some of the men who’ve been helping you with your training will invite you to go with them when they go to the bathhouse. It’s an honor when they invite you, so you’ve been looking forward to it, even though you don’t exactly know why. They watch you, very casually, and the first one who notices that you, ah, become excited, watching the others, will be the one who offers to teach you about such things. I was very lucky: for me it was Elfhelm, a warrior I’d been admiring since I was ten.” Théodred smiled at the memory. “The women are involved in it too, the wives or sweethearts; they teach you how it is with a woman, all the ways to please her. It’s a good way to learn, I think, from people you know, and trust, who are willing to be patient with you. Though I suppose customs are very different here in Gondor.”

Boromir was stunned by what he had heard. “Oh yes, things are very different in Gondor.” His voice was bitter. “We have whores – elegant ones, like Alphennas, or common ones, like on the lower circles – both women and boys - but these things always seem to be regarded as a bit shameful, something that a man _has_ to do sometimes, but certainly never talks about, not even a young man going for his first time. No one _ever_ talks about it.”

“But this was obviously not _your_ first time.”

“Oh no, not at all. The first time I was sixteen, and drunk, but the next day I went back and found the man and said, _I’m not drunk today, and I want to do it again._ I can’t think of anything more beautiful than men’s bodies, their power and grace, like those great cats of Rhûn.” He laughed. “I’ll still tumble a woman, sometimes, to avoid suspicion, but it’s always men that I desire.”

“Do you have a regular lover?” Théodred’s voice was very soft as he caressed Boromir’s cheek.

“No, I do not. I never found anyone who stirred me enough…” He could barely speak for the thrumming in his blood, “…until now.”

“Nor I.” Théodred sealed the words with a kiss, like the swearing of an oath.

~*~

As it does for all lovers, morning came all too soon, and they could only ignore the discreet coughs from outside the tent for so long. Dressing quickly, gathering their packs and gear, Théodred sensed that there was still one question waiting, unspoken, between them.

“In Rohan, this is really a common thing? No one cares where a man spends his nights?”

“Of course not, why should they? Most married men, though, are faithful to their wives, and women to their husbands.”

“So if I came to visit you at Edoras….”

“You would share my bed, with no questions asked.” Théodred reached for him one last time. “You’ll come to Edoras, won’t you?”

Boromir’s voice was husky in Théodred’s ear. “I would not wish to lose what I have found. It may not be soon, and it may not be often, but I _will_ come to you, love, whenever I can. I swear it.”


	7. Claimed

**Claimed** , by just_ann_now

 

“Turn,Theodred,” he whispered; I trembled as I felt his fingers on my hips; then the brush of his lips and tongue on the tattoo at the small of my back. I did not know he had ever noticed it. Thoroughly and carefully he explored me; never had I been so conscious of my body, proud that it seemed to please him. I had been fascinated by his hands, those graceful fingers, and to feel them touch me so intimately was enough to make me ache with need. 

When he took me in his mouth, I thought I should die for the bliss of it. His tongue swirled, caressed; teasing me nearly to the brink; then drawing me back again and again. I could feel him humming with delight, drunk with his power over me, until finally, mercifully, he gave me release.

My fingers were still tangled in his hair when he rose to kiss me again. I could taste my seed mingled with the brandy, rich and heady. _Let me take you, please,_ he begged, his lips warm on my throat; I could deny him nothing. My body was as clay in his hands, molded to his pleasure. _Boromir, Boromir,_ I murmured, over and over, his name becoming the word for all the sensations he aroused in me.

We did not realize he had bitten my shoulder until afterwards. He seemed shocked, almost ashamed at the ferocity of his passion, but to this day I bear the scar proudly. _You have marked me,_ I whispered, _claimed me as your own._ I reached back to dip my fingertips in the blood, then slid my fingers across his lips. His tongue darted out, licking away the salt, his eyes dark, and he whispered, _and so you must mark me as well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for [Edoraslass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass)


	8. Waking Anew

**Waking Anew** , by Edoraslass

 

Boromir has never awoken next to a lover before. The women he has been with were either willing house servants or whores; the men, fellow soldiers who returned to their bedroll immediately afterwards, or strangers met in some obscure tavern.

He wonders what happens next. Is he supposed to pretend nothing out of the ordinary has taken place, or as if nothing passed between them? Or is he supposed to invite further intimacies? He hopes this last is the case, for Théodred is pressed against him, their legs tangled together, and the scent of him causes Boromir’s stomach to clench with waking desire.

They are so close that their noses are nearly touching, and Boromir studies Théodred as he would never do if Théodred was awake. The other’s face is relaxed in sleep, making him look much younger, almost innocent, which Boromir has good reason to know he is not. Golden hair is spread over equally golden skin, and Boromir reaches out to brush an unruly curl from Théodred’s cheek. A tiny smile curves Théodred’s lips, and Boromir’s blood begins to hum again. That mouth has distracted Boromir for days, has kept him awake nights, and it is even more distracting now that he knows what pleasure that mouth can bring him.

Theodred stirs,murmuring something incoherent; Boromir cannot resist leaning forward and gently kissing him, running his palm over Theodred’s shoulder.

~*~

 

Théodred has not awoken with a lover in many months; he has almost forgotten what it is like to be led into wakefulness by strong hands and warm lips.

He opens his eyes, smiling sleepily at the comforting weight of Boromir’s arm lying across his hips. “It is not morning yet, I hope,” Théodred yawns.

“No,” Boromir says. “Morning is still several hours away.”

Boromir seems a bit distant, and, for all that they are nearly atop one another, Théodred is struck with the fear that the other man is going to act as if nothing at all has occurred between them. That happened once, and Théodred’s pride was badly dented by the incident. “You are very serious,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “What can be on your mind at this time of night?”

Boromir hesitates. “I …I am used to waking alone,” he replies with a smile that is uncertain. “I do not know what I am meant to say; ‘good morning’ seems so…formal.”

Théodred laughs softly, misgivings gone. “You do not have to say anything,” he answers, idly stroking the small of Boromir’s back. “It is enough that we are here.”


	9. Field Tested

**Field Tested** , by just_ann_now

Those not on guard sat by the fire; singing, drinking, pretending to ignore the sounds coming from the tent. As the guardsmen’s songs grew bawdier, the youngest, a mere cadet, blushed redder and redder.

Finally the commander had had enough. “Boy, why don’t you take these waterskins down to the river and fill them up for tomorrow – that will spare your virgin ears. Taeron, Haneril, go with him, see that he doesn’t get lost.”

Shortly thereafter, a loud splash was heard from the river, amidst shouts of laughter.

The commander chuckled. “A cold shower will do the boy good.”


	10. Jes Waitin'

**Jes Waitin'** , by just_ann_now

 

“Weren’t we supposed to be at Haretha’s farm by mid-day, to hear the case about the bull?” Taeron asked.

“They were awake earlier,” the boy blurted. “I heard them laughing, and then….” He blushed yet again, demonstrating the aptness of his new nickname, Rosey. 

‘It must be wonderful to be young,” Eluchil observed. “Do you remember those days, Taeron? When you could go all night?”

“What do you mean, remember? I can still easily go three times, maybe four, even if _you_ can’t, old man.” 

Eluchil snorted his disbelief, while a Rider, breaking his fast nearby, grinned. “Prince Théodred is known for his endurance. Your lord may not wish to ride today at all. He may need the day to sit on a soft pillow and rest.”

Taeron groaned. “What good will rest do, if it’ll just make him ready for another night? At this rate we’ll never get further than forty leagues from the city.”


	11. Second Night

**Second Night** , by just_ann_now

 

All day long I thought about Théodred's words, turning them over and over in my mind: _I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen. In Rohan, there is no shame in it. No one would think it amiss if you spent your nights in my bed._ Sometimes I felt myself flush. Whenever I stole a glance his way, I could see him smiling, too, shyly biting his lip and looking away. I wondered what he was thinking . 

Every now and again Théo would spur his horse, starting us off on an impromptu race; whooping with glee, our men would follow. After a time, to distract myself from my heated thoughts, I asked him to teach me some Rohirric words, and we spent the rest of the day practicing military terms and common phrases. Overhearing us, our guards and riders began to do likewise, so as the afternoon drew towards evening the lessons continued with playful banter. 

Once camp was set up, the evening seemed to stretch interminably before us; I was so eager to be alone with him again I could scarcely eat my supper. I found myself tapping my foot and thrumming my fingers with impatience, waiting for a discreet time to pass after the meal. Théo seemed likewise distracted, so finally feigning a yawn, I bid the company goodnight, and struggled to conceal my satisfaction as Théo did the same. 

_Forclega_ , one of his riders murmured, to the muffled laughter of his friends; I paused, trying to work out the meaning. Shaking my head, I finally gave up. I could always ask Théo to explain it later. Meanwhile he wagged a finger at the cheeky rider and followed me into the tent. 

As soon as the tent flap was closed behind us, we were in each other's arms. Laughing, he pushed me backwards onto the cot, fumbling with my buttons and laces while kissing me so hungrily I could scarcely breathe. 

“This has been the longest day of my life,” he murmured into my throat when we finally came up for air. “I did not think that meal would ever be finished. How long does it take to roast a coney on a stick?”

“I can't believe you let me think I was seducing you, when you were far more experienced than I!” I sputtered. Even after thinking about it all day, I never decided whether to be outraged or delighted. Or if it even mattered. 

“But you are my Liege-Lord. What could I do but obey, and follow where you led? But turnabout is fair play; tonight let me be the one to lead _you_.” 

The thought of giving myself up entirely to another's will, just as I had when I was young and untried, was curiously liberating. I relaxed and wondered what exactly he had in mind; had he spent his day plotting out how we would spend the night? 

First, though, it seemed that we were were to continue the language lesson. Théo's warm breath slid all over my body, naming the parts in his rolling, musical language in between lingering kisses. Throat, shoulder, belly, and on down, until I could scarcely make out his words for the pounding of my blood. 

Abruptly he sat up, and I could not prevent a muffled whimper escaping from my lips: _please, don't stop._ Without moving his lower body where he had me pinned between those powerful thighs, he twisted about and reached for his rucksack. What strength in those shoulders! He knew that I was watching; even an act as mundane as removing a vial of balm, opening it and scooping a measure into his hands, was carefully calculated to hold my interest. He was used to being an object of attention, of desire; in truth, everything he did was with beauty and grace. I could watch him forever. But soon I was distracted from these thoughts.

With slick fingers he took both of us in hand, circling each tip with his thumb and alternating the speed and intensity of his strokes until his own breath became as quick and ragged as mine. With that amazing flexibility he began to kiss and lick his way back up my body, his beard rasping my sweat-soaked skin, stopping to finally capture my eager mouth. The pounding of my heart, the breathless kisses - I felt as though I was drowning in pleasure until, finally, I was undone. I felt more than heard Théo's deep groan of satisfaction before he, too, lay gasping by my side.

It was another night of very little sleep; with astounding skill and energy he brought me to the brink, and beyond, again and again. _What a fool I was_ , I thought, half-drowsing for a few brief moments, _to think I knew all about the pleasures of the flesh. We could lay like this forever, and he would still have more to teach me._

Once again morning came too soon; we would be back in Minas Tirith by mid-day. As we dressed I found myself unexpectedly self-conscious, fumbling for small talk.

“What was that word, the one your guardsman used last night just as we were retiring?” 

I was surprised to see him blush. “ _Forclega_? It means what we have been doing, _tupping_ , I think it is in your language. Making love; not in the same sense as the marriage bed, but for pleasure only.”

I suddenly felt sick. To me the hours we had passed on the narrow cot were more than idle entertainment, or the convenient indulgence of a passing desire. He had many lovers, he said so himself; would I merely be another in that long line? But even had we not shared the act of love he would still be my friend, my most worthy companion. Perhaps I needed to be content with his friendship only, and these few blissful memories. 

But I need not have feared. With infinitely gentle fingertips, he brushed the most fearsome looking bruises on my hips and back, then he caught my hands in his and held them to his breast.

“We are both marked, now,” he murmured, “inside and out, claimed for each other, for as long as we live.”

“For as long as we live,” I agreed; but to myself I added, “and beyond.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday gift for Edoraslass.


	12. Three Long Days, or "You Had Me At Hello"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Five Things Meme Request from [Celandine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celandine/pseuds/Celandine): "Five Ways Boromir Would Have Seduced Theodred"

**Three Long Days, _or_ , “You Had Me At Hello”**, by just_ann_now

  1. Sometimes Boromir wishes they had met when they were children: fostering in each other's households, growing up together with carefree affection, exploring each other's changing bodies, as boys do, full of wonder and delight.  

  2. Other times Boromir wishes they had met anonymously, in one of those dangerous taverns of the lower circles. Some brandy, some maguey, a bit of inconsequential conversation, then they would have slipped outside and taken each other quickly against a wall or a bench in a shadowed doorway. Such things were done all the time. He'd done it often enough himself.  

  3. Sometimes Boromir wishes the men of Gondor were as forthright as the men of Rohan. “Fuck me?” “Yes, certainly, my pleasure.” “And mine, as well, thank you.” Sometimes he thinks the men of Gondor love words too much.  

  4. Other times, though, he imagines what it would be like to lay him down in the soft grass of a scented garden, binding his hands with a silken cord, blindfolding him and feeding him dates and apricots and candied ginger. He wants to lick the sweetness from Théodred's lips, and bury himself in the fragrance of Théodred's skin and hair. He wants to taste Théodred's tender, secret places. He wants Théodred to beg him to do these things.  

  5. And when they are finally sated, curled around each other on a narrow camp cot in a moldery tent by the side of river Erui; when they have explored each other with wonder and delight, taken each other both hurriedly and languidly, tasted and reveled in every inch of each other's skin, he murmurs these secrets into Théodred's ear. “What took you so long?” Théodred whispers, laughing, his lips burning a trail down Boromir's throat. “I was yours from the very first moment.”




	13. Challenge

**Challenge** , by Edoraslass

 

“Shhh,” Théodred murmured, “they’ll hear.”

Boromir tried to catch his breath quietly, but only ended up gasping when Théodred’s mouth found a very sensitive spot. “I am not sure I care,” he managed, tangling his fingers in wind-roughed blond hair.

“Surely a warrior of Gondor can be silent,” Théodred teased, “no matter what a simple Rider does.”

Boromir raised his head. “Is that a challenge?”

Theodred‘s eyes sparkled. “If you wish it to be.”

“Accepted,” Boromir declared, and immediately wondered if he’d made a mistake when Théodred’s grin became distinctly wicked.

“As it please you,” he said, and bent low over Boromir’s quivering body.


	14. Fourteen

**14** , by Edoraslass

 

Théodred awoke to a warm mouth roaming down his chest. “You cannot be serious,” he groaned. “Again?”

Boromir grinned wickedly, hands sliding over Théodred’s hips. “I thought you were known for your endurance.”

“We have not gotten much rest on this trip,” Théodred pointed out. “I do occasionally need sleep.” He sighed at Boromir’s lips against his belly, shivering in anticipation as Boromir slowly moved lower.

“This is the last day of our journey,” Boromir murmured. “Who knows when we will have this chance again?”

“A good point,” Théodred gasped, arching toward Boromir's mouth. “We should not waste this time.”


	15. Clear As Day

**Clear As Day** , by just_ann_now

 

“Look, Mag! They’re back!” The kitchen-wench was peering out the window; soon the other maids and wenches, assistant cooks, the baking-boys too, all crowded to admire our young lord and the golden prince, now returned with their escort from their visit to Pelagir. A sight to stir the blood, they were, too: those handsome Riders had caused hearts to flutter, skirts to lift and breeches to fall, all over the City. I smiled to think of the crop of yellow-haired, blue-eyed babes we would see next spring.

Far from the strained and hungry look they’d worn before, my lord and his companion now were sleek, relaxed – well, there is a word for how they looked; I’d heard my bawdiest friends use it often enough. _Satisfied_ hardly encompasses it: exhausted, yet well-pleased with themselves and the world as a whole. I stood and watched them steal shy glances at each other, as if they could not quite believe what good fortune had fallen on them in the course of their travels. Gear unloaded, company dismissed, they lingered outside the Steward’s house, deep in conversation, unable to tear themselves apart.

Of course I knew about Boromir's tastes; for two years I’d been hearing the tales. I had enough acquaintances on the lower circles watching out for him that he was never in any real danger; he had the good sense to dress simply when he was on the prowl. As for the rest, well, if he were grown-up enough to visit taverns like _The Prancing Rooster_ , then he should be man enough to accept what could happen there. _Had_ happened, and fairly often, according to what I’d heard.

But what was different, now, and clear as day, was that Boromir had fallen in love; and by the way the prince was gazing back at him, the feeling was quite mutual. And what was also quite clear was that neither of them had any idea yet of what had happened to them.

_Don’t go to your father now,_ I thought. _Compose yourself first; dampen some of that glow; scrub off his scent, no matter how much that pains you. If your father sees you now, the game will be up ‘ere it’s started._ I watched them, heads bowed together, until at last with a laugh they clapped each others’ shoulders before heading off to their apartments. I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding.


	16. Fathers and Sons

**Fathers and Sons** , by just_ann_now

 

They enter the Great Hall laughing; then remember and compose themselves solemnly as they approach the dais. 

Gravely they report the results of the patrol: three settlements visited; mediation with two farmers over a wandering bull and resultant calf; no reports of orcs or banditry; sun and rain over the Lossarnach at the proper times and in the proper measures. All is well. As they speak, they stand just a bit closer to each other than is customary, even for friends.

_So that is how it is,_ Denethor thinks. _I have long suspected he would choose that dark path. Still, even this can be turned to Gondor’s advantage, until his duty to our House can no longer be denied._

_So that is how it is,_ Theoden thinks. _My son is radiant, wearing his joy for all to see; but if the young lord of Gondor ever causes him pain, I will destroy him with my own hands._


	17. Hand to Hand

**Hand to Hand** , by Edoraslass

 

“What happened there?” Faramir pointed to Boromir’s forearm.

Boromir looked, puzzled, and saw a hand-shaped bruise. He cursed the warm weather which had caused him to roll his sleeves to the elbow. “You know I am not as accomplished in bare-handed fighting as some,” he replied casually. “Théodred thought to teach me a sly trick or two.”

“Perhaps he should teach me,” Faramir mused, and Boromir choked on his ale. “ But I am sure Father thinks me too young to learn such fighting.”

“You will have the chance to learn soon enough,” Boromir sympathised. _Though certainly not from Théodred._


	18. Stealing Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble trio.

**Stealing Beauty** , by just_ann_now

**The Sun in Splendor**

They were so dazzling Faramir could hardly bear to look. The golden Prince of Rohan, the shining Heir of Gondor, both being presented in their eighteenth year, with due pomp and ceremony, to the Council and people of Minas Tirith. Their hope, their future.

_I will never be like them_ , Faramir thought. _I am gawky, graceless, unskilled. They are like the sun in splendor; I am dun-colored as earth and rock and water below._

Yet when Boromir caught his brother's eye he winked, and Théodred's smile was honest and generous. 

For a moment Faramir felt his heart lift.

**Too Beautiful**

"Will Faramir be training with us?"

"Only if he's forced. He lacks as yet a warrior's soul; his breathes books and music."

"Does it?" Théodred glanced across the garden to where Faramir sat alone. "My grandmother used to sing me a song about wandering star-voyagers, but I only remember bits. I wonder if Faramir knows it?"

Boromir laughed; Faramir peered towards them suspiciously. "I doubt there's a poem he doesn't know. Perhaps you can two can steal away to the Library and drown yourselves in vellum and leather. Those ancient tomes are too beautiful for me to even dare touch."

**Strength of a Different Kind**

In the silence after Faramir finished his song, Boromir stole a glance at Théodred. The Prince sat, head bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks; then he reached forward to embrace Faramir.

"Your music has great power, my friend. Don't ever let anyone steal this from you, or belittle your gift; our world has need of poets and bards no less than warriors. Your strength is of a different kind. 

"Let your brawny brother be famed for his sword - " laughing as Boromir made an outraged face - "but you will be long remembered for your other gifts as well."


	19. Deception

**Deception** , by just_ann_now

 

Théodred’s thumb, tracing lazy circles on the inside of Boromir’s wrist. 

Théodred is acting as if nothing is happening – nodding, smiling, making pleasant conversation with the others at the table – while Boromir is aching so that he can barely swallow. All he can think about was what Théodred had done the night before, and how those all those sensations could so effortlessly be translated to that small area of skin, half-hidden under his cuff.

“Boromir, are you unwell? You seem flushed.” Denethor speaks sharply. Théodred’s eyes widen in concern for his friend. Only Boromir can see their gleam of mischief.


	20. Elsewhere

**Elsewhere** , by Edoraslass

 

It is harder than Theodred thinks, to seem as if he is unmoved by the presence of the Steward’s elder son. Over breakfast, however, he cannot keep his eyes from darting occasionally to Boromir.

He must act as if he does not know how to elicit a groan of pleasure by caressing Boromir there; must pretend that he is not aware of how Boromir will gasp a shuddering yes if he puts his mouth there.

He must give no sign that he knows what that dark silken hair feels like when it is sliding through his fingers, over his belly; must not betray that he knows what it is like to be awakened by those firm hands and warm lips exploring his skin with delight, or the scen--

Theodred comes back to himself with a start as he discovers someone is speaking to him. “I cry you pardon,” he tells the serving woman as he ignores his father's lifted eyebrow. “I was – elsewhere.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Boromir trying to repress a smirk, and has to hide his answering grin as he realizes that Boromir’s thoughts were elsewhere, as well.


	21. Sport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks go to Cocoajava and Uisgich, who are the godmothers of this ficlet. The photo under the link may not be entirely worksafe, so use discretion when clicking.

**Sport** , by just_ann_now

Every day the Rohirrim and the citadel guards play foot-ball: running, kicking, laughing, propelling the ball with feet and hips, head and shoulders. Once, a young cadet thoughtlessly reached; “NO HANDS!” all shouted raucously, and the boy ducked his head, embarrassed.

>   
>  ( _No hands_ , Boromir murmurs, lifting Théodred’s arms up above his head, pretending to bind his wrists, sliding his tongue along the tanned skin at the back of his neck.
> 
> _No hands_ , Théodred agrees, nipping Boromir’s shoulder, reveling in his beauty: arms straining upward, powerful back, slim waist, muscled bottom.
> 
> _No hands_ , Boromir whispers, stopping to savor [ that hollow just below the hipbone](http://www.livejournal.com/community/_dangerpants_/443.html); the spot always tasting of salt and seed, leather and spicy soap. The flavor of Théodred: delicious, unforgettable. 
> 
> _No hands_ , Théodred gasps, when he can speak again.)

Boromir and Théodred play each day, and the King makes a point of stopping by. Even the Steward is glimpsed peeking out his window to watch. The gangly younger brother, nose in book, absently kicks a ball hurtling in his direction. He looks up, bemused; blushes as the cheering Rohirrim pound him on the back, thanking him for the goal that wins the game, their last night in Minas Tirith.  



	22. I Can't Get No/By the Light of the Lover's Moon

**(I Can’t Get No)/ By the Light of the Lover’s Moon** , by just_ann_now

 

“Théo, _no_!” The note of pure panic in Boromir’s voice made Théodred pause in his hurried attempt to unlace his lover’s breeches.

~*~

In the two days since their return, it seemed as though the duties of the Steward’s heir had multiplied beyond all measure: training plans and rosters to be approved, armor and weaponry to be inventoried, promotion boards to be convened. Théodred managed to occupy himself with the trade negotiations, and occasional racing and wrestling and sparring matches with the Citadel guards. He had only seen Boromir at mealtimes, and even then, they barely had the opportunity to exchange a word. Breakfast at the Steward’s table always seemed to be a somewhat tense experience, even with guests present.

“Father, I had thought to command the Honor Guard that would accompany the royal party to the border, but I see that Lanthir has been appointed, instead.”

“That will not be necessary. It is Lanthir’s duty and privilege as a Citadel officer. Your presence will be required here.”

“I had hoped -”

“No, you have neglected your duties enough. I indulged your request with that completely unnecessary excursion to Pelargir, but now there is work to be done. I personally selected Lanthir for the Honor Guard, and that order will stand.” He swept away, regal, masterful as always. Théodred and Faramir gaped, speechless with shock, while Boromir ground his teeth in anger and humiliation.

~*~

A chance meeting, midmorning, in a dimly lit corridor; and Théodred leaped at the opportunity.

“Théo, no! Are you mad? We can _not_ do this here in the Citadel. Not ever.”

“But I burn for you. I can't bear not seeing you, but when I do, it is never enough."

“I know, I know. Do you think I am made of stone? But you cannot imagine what my father is like when he is angered. This morning was nothing. And there is no way that he would tolerate this, if he should find out. It is beyond madness.”

“But we _must_ meet again. Leave tomorrow, without being with you one last time? Impossible.”

“Let me think.” The feel of Theodred’s lips on his throat did not aid in his concentration. “Do you remember the dining hall at the Citadel? Be at the wall there, tonight, at midnight. Someone will meet you and bring you to me. If anyone asks, just say you were restless and wanted to walk a bit. But try not to speak unless you have to. And wear a hood! That hair is like a beacon.” One quick kiss, and he was gone.

~*~

Théodred walked along the edge of the Citadel wall, occasionally yawning, sighing, gazing up at the moon or down at the quiet city. The sound of dragging footsteps made him turn quickly, to see a strange sight: an old woman, carrying a basket full of those small odd fruits they called _love apples,_ muttering to herself.

“Night’s the time to pick them, under the lover’s moon, when their powers are at their peak. There’s a reason they’re called love apples, aye, and that’s why they’ll pay a pretty penny for the best of my little garden. Heavy, though for an old woman to carry. You, there! You’re young and strong, a _princely_ figure if I do say so, carry this for me, that’s a good lad.” 

Catching her drift, Théodred took the basket and followed her through a small gated courtyard and then into the kitchen itself, quiet and empty at that late hour. Stowing the basket in a corner, he followed her down a narrow hallway to a wooden door. She knocked gently: _tap, tap, tap,_ opened the door, and there was Boromir. He reached, laughing, to embrace the old woman, and she kissed him soundly on both cheeks. Turning with a grin, she looked Théodred up and down, winked broadly at Boromir, and walked away, chuckling to herself. 

“Who on earth-”

“An old friend from my childhood, one who knows the meaning of discretion. Come-”  
With that he pulled Théodred inside, shoving the door closed with his hip.

~*~

Through hours too precious for sleep, they memorized shape and feel and taste. The rasp of his beard along tender skin, the texture and scent of his hair, the way his groan would catch in his throat at the end – treasures to be hoarded. Yet in those hours there was also the gift of laughter, perhaps the most blessed of all.

“By the Valar,” Boromir was still breathless, “I’ve never had it done to me quite like _that_ before.”

“You can teach it to your other lovers, and they can teach theirs, and if I ever encounter that trick again I’ll know from whence it came. Consider it one more gift of Rohirric culture to the stodgy, unimaginative folk of Gondor.” Théodred gazed with delight as Boromir stifled his laughter in a pillow, his whole body quivering.

“Ah, Théo, there is no one like you in all the world! You have quite spoiled me for anyone else.”

“True, but you must not ever let these fine tools become rusted. As a swordsman you know the importance of practice, practice, practice, to keep skills at their peak. I would not have you slack and fat when we meet again.” More laughter, but then Théodred’s tone became serious. ”We are not born for celibacy, you or I, but to taste all the delights of this world as they are offered.

“My grandmother always told me: _Life is short. Seize your joy._ Our times together will be few, but let us make this vow: each year on Midsummer night, wherever we are, we will stop and think about what we have shared, and will share again one day. Remember me, dear Borya, as I will remember you.” Their kiss sealed the vow. 

A tap at the door, a muffled call, and the night was over.

~*~

Scarcely three hours later, two exhausted-looking young men made their quite proper farewells under the watchful eyes of those assembled at the Seventh Gate. The Steward glared, barely managing to conceal his displeasure under gracious words; but the King studied them thoughtfully, smiling a bit sadly as he turned his horse towards home. 


	23. Echo of Voices

**Echo of Voices** , by Edoraslass

 

I stop, hearing the echo of voices from one of the less-frequented corridors. I cannot make out words, but the timbre of one of the voices is unmistakably my brother’s. Curious, I follow the whispers, only to come to a halt again almost immediately.

It _sounds_ like Boromir, but his tone is odd. A strange combination of fear and –longing? I have never heard him speak so, and I have a moment of concern for him before I realize that I have almost stumbled upon him with one of the chambermaids. My face grows warm with embarrassment at my own foolishness, but before I can steal away, another noise comes to me. A gasp, quickly stifled, followed by low, deep murmuring.

Whoever is with Boromir, it is not a woman. And whoever he is, he is trying to persuade Boromir into…something.

I am stunned, frozen in place, and I cannot help but wonder who this man is. A guard, perhaps a scribe or the son of some lord who has business with our fa –

The son of some lord. The son of Théoden King?

I cannot seem to move. I am remembering this morning at breakfast, when Father denied Boromir’s request to accompany the royal party to the borders, the disappointment that flashed like lightning across the faces of both Boromir and the Lord Théodred. Now I recall seeing them return from their trip to Pelargir, and I remember thinking that Boromir seemed alight from within. At the time, I dismissed the thought as the result of my having read too much poetry earlier in the day, but now…

Boromir again, now breathless. Though his words are inaudible, his voice goads me into action, and I hurriedly make my way back to the main hallway. My face is still burning, and I am glad that I meet no-one as I make my way back to my room to ponder this.

I have spent enough time around soldiers to know that such things are not unheard of. I also know that these pairings are considered unseemly, even dishonourable, when such pairings take place outside of encampments. I have never given the matter any thought, so I do not know what I think – but my brother is the most honourable of men. I do not think that he would engage in such…activities, if there were dishonour in it.

Briefly I wonder if Lord Théodred lured Boromir into such a situation, then discard that thought as ridiculous. The Rohirrim value honesty too much to stoop to such behaviour. And Boromir looked so happy, when they returned from Pelargir – I had never seen that expression on his face before.

I …I do not know what to think.

 

I watch them at dinner that night, and I can see that I am right. What it means, for Boromir and Lord Théodred, and both of our countries, I do not know.


	24. Parted

**Parted** , by Edoraslass

 

Théodred rode in silence, lost in thought, not seeing the occasional glance Théoden threw his way. They had left Mundberg only a day ago, and already his too-brief time with Boromir seemed a lovely dream. A rather sensual dream, to be sure, but a dream nonetheless.

And yet, when the breeze toyed with his hair, it sparked a vivid memory of Boromir doing much the same thing with lazy fingers; when one of the royal guards in front of him moved just so, it fleetingly reminded him of the motion of Boromir’s shoulders as he pulled Théodred down to their warm nest of blankets; when another guard tilted his head back to drink from a water-skin, Théodred could almost taste the fevered skin of Boromir’s throat beneath his mouth….

He shook his head as if to drive away an insect, for there was no use in dwelling on such thoughts. It made riding very uncomfortable, for one thing. And for another, he could not have Boromir as he wished to, and there was no point in dreaming that he could. He must accept that, though it twisted his heart to think that he might never see Boromir again. It was possible, Theodred knew that. But they were both bound to country before lover, be that lover man or woman, and nothing they felt for each other mattered to Rohan or Gondor. Responsibility to the realm came first, always.

Théodred wondered what it would be like to have to hide such a part of himself from those he loved. He ached for Boromir, for the secretive life he would have to lead --Théodred could not imagine such a thing, nor could he understand the necessity of it.

From the corner of his eye, Théodred saw his father the King watching him

Théoden moved his horse a bit closer to his son, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is all well?” His tone was deceptively mild.

Théodred nodded. “It will be well, Father,” he replied quietly. “It has to be, for the matter is out of my hands.”

Théoden studied Théodred for a moment. “Do you regret that you accompanied me to Mundberg?” he asked carefully.

Théodred gave his father a startled look, then a blissful smile lit up his face. “No,” he assured Théoden, whose relief was clear, “I do not regret a moment.”

One of the men laughed, and the rumbling timbre of the sound reminded Théodred of Boromir’s low chuckle as they lay together, temporarily sated. His smile widened, though now it held a touch of wistful remembrance. “No, I will never regret it.”

 

*****

Over breakfast, Boromir yawned, not for the first time, and saw his father’s faintly disapproving glance. To his relief, Denethor did not remark upon it, but turned back to dictating one of his morning letters to his scribe. “Your judgment is not under question,” he continued, “but if we do not stop these brigands…”

_Don’t stop,_ Théodred’s ragged voice echoed in Boromir’s mind, _please...don’t stop…_

Boromir strove to push aside such affecting memories, with little luck. Théodred had been gone only a day, and Boromir was finding it extremely difficult to keep his mind from wandering.

_Shall I show you something new?_ Remembering Théodred’s wicked smile as he spoke those words sent an uncomfortable flush of heat to areas still slightly sore from their last night together.

“Boromir!”

Boromir managed not to jump as his father’s hand came down on the tabletop. “Yes, Father?” he said blandly, as if he were not recalling the scent and taste of Théodred’s golden skin.

“Are you still sulking?” Denethor demanded, and Boromir let out a snort of surprised laughter, which seemed to startle the Steward.

“Sulking about what?”

Denethor’s eyes narrowed, and Boromir knew that he had to be very careful with what he said next. But he had given this much thought -- Heir or no, Boromir knew that his father was fully capable of keeping him from making any state visits to Rohan, if the Steward felt that his eldest son had…undesirable motives for doing so.

“If you are not sulking over the fact that you were not allowed to accompany Théoden King and his party to the borders, then where is your attention this morning?” Denethor wanted to know.

“I am sorry, Father,” Boromir replied, making certain to meet his father’s eyes squarely, as he habitually did. “It is only that I had a long night, and I am not quite yet properly awake.”

“A long night.” Denethor’s voice was frankly doubtful. “Overindulging in ale again, I suppose? Or passing time with your companions of the field?”

Boromir chuckled, ignoring the implication in Denethor’s last words, and dropped his voice, for he knew that his father thought Faramir still too young to hear crude talk. “I will not tell you there was no ale, Father, but my weariness this morning is due not to drink, but entirely to an overindulgence of Ubennas‘s talents.”

Denethor could not repress a sharp, leering chuckle, even as a strange expression passed over his face. Boromir had no doubt that this story would be investigated; fortunately, it was absolutely true, if absolutely calculated. He had spent all night with Ubennas, though those hours had not been anywhere near as satisfying as one stolen kiss from Théodred. But Boromir knew that he had to act quickly if he wanted to allay his father’s obvious suspicions, and he knew that such a lengthy visit to a courtesan was a very good way to start. He quite purposely did not address the accusation of sulking, for Boromir also knew that if he so much as mentioned the word “Rohan”, his father would take it as a certain sign of his son’s unacceptable interests.

While Denethor did not seem quite convinced, Boromir was relieved to see the barest hint of reassessment in his father’s eyes, and the matter was dropped.

_Forgive me, Theodred,_ he thought with a stab of guilt, _but I cannot reveal myself as you can. I must do this, if I ever wish to be with you again. It does not mean that I am any less yours._


End file.
